<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>into each life some rain must fall by firewoodfigs</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25007827">into each life some rain must fall</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewoodfigs/pseuds/firewoodfigs'>firewoodfigs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood &amp; Manga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Angst, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Death, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishval Civil War, Young Royai</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:15:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,635</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25007827</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewoodfigs/pseuds/firewoodfigs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Six times he stands before a grave in the rain, grieving. But this time, courage is reborn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berthold Hawkeye &amp; Riza Hawkeye, Berthold Hawkeye &amp; Roy Mustang, Maes Hughes &amp; Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>into each life some rain must fall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>i.</strong> </p><p>Riza Hawkeye is terrifying. This is the first thought that crosses Roy’s mind when he sees her slicing up the carcass of a chicken (or is it a duck?) without even flinching. So when it rains that day, he doesn't think it’s necessary to find her, in hopes of passing her an umbrella. Truthfully, he doubts someone like her is even capable of catching the common cold. </p><p>Perhaps it’s childlike bravery, or sheer stupidity, but Roy decides to search for her anyway. He can think of many reasons why this is an awful idea. First, Roy knows he’s kind of good-looking, the same way he knows he’s sort of ingenious and incredible. But he also knows his aunt is paying <em>a lot </em>of money for his lessons, and that he’s here to learn; not to chase girls or get a girlfriend. Second, he knows from his sisters’ stories that the female imagination is capable of unimaginable things, and he most certainly does not want <em> her</em>, of all people, to get the wrong idea. </p><p>If word ever gets out about the little stunt he’s about to pull, his sisters would never let him live it down. </p><p>But thunder rumbles in the distance, and rain pelts down incessantly, relentlessly. It’s enough to make even a grown man shiver. So he jogs over to her school in quick strides, searching for a socially awkward urchin with messy golden hair and a terrifying glare. </p><p>Roy only manages to find her in the end, after what must have been hours of searching. She’s not at school, no. She’s kneeling in front of a tombstone with a bunch of wilted freesias and roses, staring blankly at the inscription written on it. </p><p>He says nothing, only lifts his umbrella over her grieving form and lets half of himself get drenched.</p><p>Miss Hawkeye glares at him when she finally notices his presence, but accepts the umbrella begrudgingly nonetheless. As she turns around to face him, he sees rivulets streaming down her cheeks, and Roy wonders if it's the rain or her tears. </p><p>She rubs her eyes impatiently. “It’s just the rain,” she insists, even though the umbrella shields her from the raging storm overhead. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>ii. </strong>
</p><p>Master Hawkeye dies in his arms after begging him to take care of his daughter. He’s only twenty, halfway through the academy and still unacquainted with death. He’s too stunned to care about decorum and propriety and honorifics at the moment, and ends up yelling for <em> Riza </em>to come. </p><p>She appears a moment later, hair still a dishevelled, dampened mess; knuckles white from gripping the doorframe so hard. Her eyes are hollow and she’s too numb, too shocked to say or do anything as she stares at her father’s unnaturally still form. </p><p>For a long while, nothing he says seems to elicit any kind of response from her. It’s almost like she’s catatonic; trapped in another dimension where he can’t reach her. </p><p>He ends up taking care of the burial and the estate and everything else. </p><p>The funeral passes by in a haze. It’s a small, quiet affair. His master has never had many (or any, actually) friends to begin with, anyway, given his eccentricity and preference for seclusion.</p><p>Roy stays by her side before a gravestone again afterwards. It’s a sunny day. She doesn’t kneel this time; only stares quietly at the name engraved on it like it belongs to a stranger rather than a father. </p><p>To his dismay, he learns that, unlike him, she has no other living relatives or family to turn to. How lonely must it be, then, being trapped in this nondescript, deserted town all by herself? </p><p>So he offers her his contact details; his dreams and aspirations for the future as an excuse for them to maintain some semblance of a friendship. It’s probably closer to an acquaintanceship, given that they hadn’t really spoken much even during his stay at the Hawkeye manor. Either way, it’s better than being all alone, he thinks. </p><p>In exchange, Miss Hawkeye simply responds with a small, sad smile before asking if she can entrust her back to his dream; offering her own naive ideals and hopes for a better, brighter future. </p><p>And then, she unbuttons her blouse as soon as they return to the manor to unveil an intricate array begging to be deciphered. For all his brains and talents Roy can only stare, shell-shocked. </p><p>What the <em> hell </em> had his master done? </p><p>The sky begins to weep for the abuse she’s endured for the sake of bearing an alchemist’s legacy. But the misty rain can’t wash away the ink splaying out like blood on her back; the pain she must have suffered during the excruciating procedure. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” is the only thing he can say to break the silence that hangs over them like a death sentence, as he crosses the distance between them to ghost his fingers over the apology inscribed onto her back.</p><p>Miss Hawkeye offers him an impassive shrug. “It… it doesn’t matter,” she mumbles, but her shoulders are quaking and her hands are trembling as she grips on to her blouse for dear life. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>iii.</b>
</p><p>The war finally ends. Rain descends from the heavens like drops of silver after what must surely have been hell on earth. A rarity, Roy thinks, where condensation in the air is caused only by blood, not water. A gift from the gods (do they exist?), perhaps. He lifts his palms heavenward, as if begging for the rain to wash away his sins; his scars and his very soul.</p><p>It doesn’t. A soldier like him now inured to violence and gore doesn’t deserve such a reprieve. </p><p>At the very least, though, the Hero of Ishval is grateful that it renders him useless. A <em> hero. </em> The title sits uncomfortably on his tongue, in his gut. He’s nothing more than a murderer; a monster, and he doesn’t want any medals of gold or glory emblazoned across his military garb. Not when they’re just symbols celebrating death and destruction. </p><p>Roy watches from the distance as a sorrowful silhouette with a familiar tuft of blonde hair kneels over a makeshift grave. </p><p>“An Ishvalan child, shot and left to die on the roadside alone,” she explains reverently with a forlorn smile, when he inches closer to ask whether it’s a fallen comrade.</p><p>He swallows thickly. God, if only he’d kept his ugly mouth shut back then. Then maybe she’d still just be shooting birds and rabbits and antelopes. Maybe she’d still be making chicken soup for dinner now (imagining the smell of cooked meat is enough to make him nauseous). Maybe she’d still be stuck in the raffish countryside; in that countrified, eerie manor all by herself. </p><p>Being alone, he thinks, is still infinitely better than being surrounded by cadavers in a deluge of blood-stained sand.</p><p>The… sniper (The Hawk’s Eye leaves an awfully bitter taste in his mouth, like he’s biting a bullet) clenches her fist when she’s done, before asking him for the impossible. </p><p>“I have a favour to ask of you, Mr. Mustang,” she begins. “Please burn and crush my back.” </p><p>“There’s no way I can -” Roy replies immediately, almost yelling. How in the world could he burn <em> her </em> flesh, with the alchemy he’d learnt from <em> her </em> back? </p><p>“Please,” she says, begging for him to liberate her from the bonds chaining her to a deceased man so that she can be her own person. Just <em> Riza Hawkeye, </em>not the keeper of her father’s secrets. </p><p>“Damn it,” Roy curses under his breath. She makes it sound like it’s her fault for entrusting her father’s research to him. But isn’t <em>he</em> the one who had abused the power entrusted to him; defiled her trust, destroyed her hopes of everyone getting their happy ending somehow? </p><p>And yet... endings like these only exist in grand castles and fairy tales. Not in arid, scorched deserts, and most certainly not in their horror stories of ruthless murder and bloody genocide and endless strife. </p><p>If only he’d been a little less foolish back then. If only. </p><p>Roy relents.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>iv. </strong>
</p><p>Rain pours down in heavy, roaring torrents when he burns her back. Roy wishes it could fall through the roof somehow; douse the fire eating her at her flesh so he doesn’t have to hear her suppressed screams that come out as whimpers as she bites down on an old, ragged cloth. It breaks his heart to burn <em> her, </em>a friend he’s come to cherish and appreciate through all the hell they’ve endured together over bland coffee and stale bread. </p><p>But he does so anyway. Because it’s what she wants - no, what she <em> needs</em>. He lets the massive downpour swallow the sounds of their cries; lets the wind carry away the lethal secret that has killed hundreds (or thousands?) into the dark, endless void. </p><p>“It… it’s done,” Roy whispers breathlessly at last. He removes the burnt tissue carefully, mindful of her quivering frame before covering them with sterile dressings. Then, he gives her the painkillers he’d gathered from the apothecary, which she eagerly swallows. </p><p>He doesn’t dare meet her eyes while she’s still conscious, fearing that he’ll only see hatred swimming in them. How could she not, after all that he’s done? He wouldn’t blame her, to be honest. She has every right to, and he deserves every ounce of it. </p><p>Fortunately, the medicine kicks in quickly. Roy kneels before her half-lucid form as her eyelids begin to flutter shut. God, he wants to beg for forgiveness, but...</p><p>“I forgive you,” she murmurs sleepily even before he says anything, before finally falling into painless oblivion. Roy stays by her side, nervously close and gentle as he wipes her forehead with a cool, damp cloth to make sure a fever doesn’t develop.</p><p>Afterwards, he goes to her parents’ grave to beg them for forgiveness; to repent for all that he’s done to their daughter.</p><p>“I’m so sorry I couldn’t fulfil your last wish, Master,” he cries, filled with regret that he hadn’t listened to his warning back then. The stones only stare back at him wordlessly. Self-reproach swallows him whole, the way squalls of driving rain completely engulf him. </p><p>A little less than a month later, Riza Hawkeye marches into his office, stoic and stalwart with an unrivalled expertise in guns and an unyielding duty to the living and the dead. He’s inclined to believe that maybe, just maybe, he can make the necessary reparations and restitutions with her by his side. And so he makes her his personal adjutant; gives her the right to shoot his back if he steps off the path. </p><p>It’s the least he can do after he’s defaced hers, after all. </p><p>“Will you follow me?” Roy asks apprehensively. </p><p>“If that is your wish, then even into hell,” she states, not flinching in the least. He wants to tell her that she’s already been through hell with him, and she doesn’t deserve anymore of that. </p><p>Instead, he grits his teeth and looks on ahead resolutely, determined not to let her down this time. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>v. </strong>
</p><p>Brigadier General Maes Hughes is buried on a relatively bright afternoon. The sun shines as birds sing and flowers begin to bloom. The spring sky shimmers overhead in a vibrant, cheerful shade of blue like it’s paying an ode to his sprightly nature. </p><p>And yet, the ceremony is distinctly somber: it’s filled with soldiers who aren’t allowed to break protocol and say their eulogies and prayers; a wife whose heart is torn asunder, who still yearns for him to return home, and a child who’s far too young to understand that he’s not coming back. </p><p>Colonel Mustang stands at attention as the soldiers lower his best friend six feet under. His stomach coils as his heart wrenches. He feels like throwing up again. A part of him wishes his body would stop behaving in this manner so that he can at least attempt to convince himself that this isn’t real; that it’s just a feverish dream which will be chased away by the morning light. </p><p>But it’s real. It’s not a dream. Because Elicia, darling Elicia is crying for her father. “Why are you burying Papa?” she yells. “He has to return to his work!” </p><p>Roy only barely manages to stop himself from grieving aloud. Years of military training, perhaps. He continues watching quietly as the bugle sounds off in Hughes’ honour instead, and waits for everyone to leave before saying his piece. </p><p>Well, almost everyone. </p><p>“... Are you alright?” His Lieutenant asks. </p><p>“Yes,” he answers unconvincingly. “It’s… it’s a terrible day for rain.” </p><p>She looks up at the vast horizon above them, a pretty pastel pink with tender ribbons of lilac streaking across. “It’s not raining -” </p><p>“Yes, it is,” he whispers, before donning the military cap once more. </p><p>Thankfully, Hawkeye understands. She gives him a moment to grieve, not bothering with senseless platitudes or empty sympathies. A crow caws in the distance, calling for the departed soul of his friend as he stands, uniform dry but cheeks inexplicably damp. </p><p>“Let’s go, sir. It’s getting chilly here,” Lieutenant Hawkeye calls gently. Colonel Mustang nods and obliges, leaving his best friend behind in the setting sun. </p><p>Daybreak arrives once more, like clockwork. His eyes are raw and red and swollen shut as he mulls over the consequences of ditching work for the day. </p><p>Hawkeye turns up at his doorstep with freshly baked bread and a warm cup of coffee just then: the morning light that offers him a brief respite from grief.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>vi.</strong>
</p><p>It’s pouring this time as he stands in front of Hughes’ grave. Somehow, it always does whenever he stands alive before death. </p><p>The sky and rain are like sackcloth and ash, Roy thinks, as it falls on his shoulders and shrouds him from the rest of the world in a sad, pearly grey. But he’s been so scared and frustrated and exhausted over the past few months - from losing his closest friend, to dealing with a government corrupt to its very core and an impending nationwide catastrophe - that it’s a welcome relief. </p><p>“It’s almost time, Colonel,” comes a gentle voice in the midst of the gloomy darkness.</p><p>The downpour gradually lessens into a soft drizzle. </p><p>It’s impossible to miss the scent of <em>her, </em>lavender and petrichor masked beneath gunpowder even in this graveyard reeking of death. And it finally dawns upon Roy then, why the time they’d spent apart had felt like an eternity; why it’d pained him so badly like someone was ripping his innards out. Because he loves her. He loves her so much that it pushes out through every fiber of his being; that he almost can’t contain the urge to kiss her; hold her, keep her in his arms forever. </p><p>Behind him, he hears her feet shift subtly. Her breathing is weary and slightly laboured. A well-timed reminder that she’s very much alive, not buried underneath soil like the other rotting corpses in this god-awful place. </p><p>Roy bites on his lips, <em> hard, </em>to restrain himself from crushing them on hers. They don’t need any more fires between them when they already have enough to extinguish. </p><p>But she’s here now, at least, and that’s more than enough. It’s enough for him to keep moving forward despite having buried a part of himself alongside the man he’d seen as a comrade, a friend and a brother. It’s enough for courage to be reborn; for him to face another day with strength and hope.</p><p>“Let’s go, Lieutenant,” he says at last, a genuine smile crossing his features for the first time in months. She hesitates for a moment before trailing behind him, footsteps quiet and steadfast. And when they depart the land of the dead (together) to meet the maelstrom awaiting the living he’s not afraid anymore. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i><b>The Rainy Day</b><br/>Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;<br/>Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;<br/>Thy fate is the common fate of all,<br/>Into each life some rain must fall,<br/>Some days must be dark and dreary.<br/>- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow </i> </p><p>// </p><p>Leave a comment if you have the time or say hi on Tumblr (firewoodfigs), I'd love to hear what you thought! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>